


now that i've tasted freedom (i'll never give it up)

by billdenbrough (kunimi)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Georgie Denbrough Lives, Georgie Denbrough is Missing, Inspired by Pirates of the Caribbean, Mentioned Georgie Denbrough, Multi, Pirates, Unbetaed we die like men, even listened to a song by vampires with rock giant voices for polyamory playlist rights, he doesn't really Show Up though, i AM a big believer in eddie/elizabeth swann parallels, i did so much useless research for this fic guys, i don't believe in mapping character parallels absolutely BUT, i wrote.... 7.7k of this in one sitting i'm so sorry, i'm not putting this in the pennywise tag but he exists in this universe, this is about boys in love finding their way to a happy ending on the seven seas!!, undead characters a la the skeleton army from the black pearl (not the losers)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-22 16:50:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22119109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kunimi/pseuds/billdenbrough
Summary: In the scheme of things, Eddie thinks, there are probably worse ideas than following the pirates onto their ship because they stole your medallion and you’re going to get it back, goddammit. He just... can’t think of any right now.[or: eddie kaspbrak sneaks onto a pirate ship to get back his medallion, and instead finds friendship, faith and what freedom tastes like on the seven seas. spoiler alert: it tastes like salt in the air, laughter and two men's lips.]streddie!pirates au, for east for the elc secret santa.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Stanley Uris, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris
Comments: 19
Kudos: 130





	now that i've tasted freedom (i'll never give it up)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eastaustraliancurrent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eastaustraliancurrent/gifts).



> first of all, MERRY CHRISTMAS EAST! i am so, SO sorry this was so late, travelling is such a timesuck smh. i hope you had an amazing holiday period and that you enjoy this!
> 
> secondly, general note: i actually read an article about the usage of the word 'babe' throughout history, thought about it, and then promptly decided to ignore what i wanted in terms of language. so there are some anachronisms around in terms of language (hopefully not too many, but this is an au inspired by a movie inspired by a theme park ride, so like... historical accuracy was never quite the main focus here, just a heads up to anyone who cares deeply about that).
> 
> anyway, this is an expansion of [this](https://billdenbrough.tumblr.com/post/189335362152/streddie-pirates-au), which is technically a three sentence prompt fill but grossly abuses the parameters of a sentence. this fic hits basically the same plot beats, just longer. a lot longer. it came out at over 10k. i'm so sorry.

In the scheme of things, Eddie thinks, there are probably worse ideas than following the pirates onto their ship because they stole your medallion and you’re going to get it _back_ , goddammit. He just... can’t think of any right now. 

It’s possible that being stuck in the brig is hampering his creativity. 

He didn’t _mean_ to get stuck in the brig—he was just following that fucking laughing pirate, with the lurid shirt and toothy grin and Eddie’s fucking medalion clutched in his hands, and now look at him. Stuck in the brig of a pirate ship, probably miles from shore, and nobody with a single clue where he is. 

He’s resourceful, though, the son of the most prepared woman in Port Royal. The most… He blanches, thinking about how his mother’s going to react when she notices he’s missing, all the things she’d say, all the hysterical screams. _He’s too sick! Too weak! Those awful, vile criminals who took him—those sickening, disgusting curs, don’t they know my Eddie is too delicate?_ **_Monsters!_ **

He feels unsteady on his feet, and he doesn’t think it’s the ocean rocking beneath the floorboards. All of his indignant righteousness has bled away, running out of him like the rats scampering across the floor, and it’s like he can feel the weight of his mother’s gaze on his shoulders, making him want to curl up into a ball. He imagines her panicking to the Governor in the morning, demanding everyone chase the pirates that took him. Well. Joke’s on her, isn’t it? Because Eddie snuck onto _their_ ship— _Eddie_ chased them, in some dim intimation of possible bravery. Eddie got himself into this mess.

So maybe the joke’s on him.

* * *

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

Eddie blinks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and peers up. The sun is shining down, making it hard to see, but there’s the silhouette of someone against the light… and then he shifts, blocking the sun more, and Eddie can see _him_. The pirate from last night, with the ridiculous shirt and laughing eyes, the one who _stole_ Eddie’s medallion, the one Eddie boarded the ship to find. He’s there, and he’s grinning in delight, like instead of opening the brig he unwrapped a Christmas present. Eddie hates him. He can feel his expression growing grumpier, his teeth baring, like he’s some sort of feral beast instead of a Port Royal boy, born and bred. The pirate just _laughs_ , which makes Eddie even more furious.

“Hey, Bill!” he calls out. “Looks like we got a stowaway.”

“What?” Eddie hears.

“Yeah… in fact, it might solve that problem Mikey was talking about.”

Another face pops over the edge of the brig’s entry. His is more angular, more weary, but his eyes seem kind. Eddie decides he must be seeing things, or suffering from some temporary addlement from the brig. He’s probably caught something horrendous, he thinks glumly, remembering the crabs and rats scuttling across the floor. Yes, that must be it. Who’s ever heard of a _kind pirate?_

“Hang on, is this…” the other pirate—Bill?—trails off, cut off by an answering nod. He surveys Eddie, then says, “Well, let’s get him out of the brig, then.”

Eddie blinks. The other pirate grins.

“Aye aye, cap’n,” he says.

Wait, _what?_ Eddie doesn’t even know how to comprehend any of this… the captain being young with kind eyes, pirates _not_ keeping their captives locked up in the brig indefinitely, how frequently that fucking thief _grins_ —well, okay, that one’s a bit less serious than the other two, he admits.

“C’mon, then,” said pirate says, throwing up the brig trapdoor completely, and holding out his hand. “Time to face the sunshine, babe.”

“Don’t call me babe,” Eddie says. He ignores the hand, climbing the ladder, but suddenly the ship rocks, and he’s almost thrown completely across the ship. Almost. A hand catches his, steadying him, and Eddie’s face _burns_. Determinedly not looking at the pirate, he frees his hand and then clambers up the ladder. When he gets onto the deck, Eddie chances a glance at the pirate, sees an irritatingly knowing expression on his face, and immediately scowls.

“Richie, stop staring at prettyboy and take him over to Cap’n’s Quarters!” 

“Keep your eye on the horizon, Marsh!” the pirate—Richie—calls back at whoever’s in the crow’s nest. Eddie glances up at it and spots a lithe figure with a shock of red hair under a tricorne, and files the name away for later. _Marsh_.

A piercing whistle cuts through the air, and Eddie glances up to see Richie a few steps ahead of him, looking at him. “C’mon,” he says, nodding his head towards a door in front of them. “Captain’s waiting.”

* * *

Okay, Eddie’s now met _multiple_ pirates and not a single one of them have been what he expected.

Captain Bill Denbrough is quieter, younger, and more sad than a pirate captain should be. Eddie thinks, anyway. He’s never actually met one. He’s always been fascinated by them, in a way his mother never approved of, even if it wasn’t exactly positive. Eddie had soaked up lore and news of pirates, learning about parlays and codes of the sea. His mother had blown her top when she’d caught him reading a treatise on Tortuga—it wasn’t even _positive_ , but that made no difference to her—and ever since then, he’d been careful about what he’d consumed in her company. He reserved reading up on semaphore and other naval operations for when she was around, and snuck around with more incendiary materials when she wasn’t. It’s not like he wanted to be a _pirate_ or anything ridiculous like that; he just loved vehicles, and freedom, and there was nothing with quite as much power and freedom as a pirate ship.

Mike Hanlon, dubbed ‘Mikey’ by pretty much everyone (despite, Eddie can’t help but think, ‘Mike’ already being a nickname), is… well, Eddie’s not actually sure what he is. He thinks he’s a researcher, but he wasn’t under the impression that pirate ships _had_ research scholars on board, let alone ones with a fully stocked library. Mike is kind and friendly and studious, with warm eyes and careful hands. Eddie’s mother used to say things about people who looked like Mike, things which Eddie does not want to think about, especially not when looking at Mike, with his room full of teetering stacks of books, journals splayed everywhere and covered in a sure, steady script, dog-eared pages detailing myths and legends pinned to his walls. Eddie thinks his mother must have never known anyone like Mike, handing a flask to Richie when Richie’s hands start fidgeting, mindfully moving Bill’s cast aside jacket from where it’s dangling precariously above a candle wick, handing Eddie a cup of tea despite him not even being part of the crew; but maybe—and the thought twists Eddie’s lips into a frown, half at how disloyal it feels, and half at how true part of him suspects it may be—knowing Mike wouldn’t have made a difference, not to Sonia Kaspbrak. 

(Months later, he confesses this thought process to Stan when they’re drinking together in the quiet of the night. Stan thinks about it, then says, “maybe that’s not the question that matters—Mike being who he is shouldn’t enter into it. You either hate someone before you know them, or you don’t. Nobody should have to redeem what they are to be considered on who they are.”

Eddie blinks, thinks: _oh_. He’s quiet for the rest of the night, chasing down all those hates his mother so casually dropped into his lap his whole life, trying to work out if any of them took root, trying to dig them out with a jagged rock if so.)

Richie, it turns out, is _First Mate._ Eddie’s never been a captain of a pirate ship, admittedly, but he thinks his first choice would probably have been someone a little less… loud. “Oi, Trashmouth!” Bev shouts one day, and Eddie’s not even _remotely_ surprised when Richie’s head whips around.

Marsh from the crow’s nest turns out to be _Beverly_ Marsh, and it’s her inclusion more than anyone’s that makes Eddie think he might need to seriously reassess the crew here. All his life, he’s heard about superstition, first from his mother’s mouth and then from all the sailors around the port. There was never any shortage of whispered hisses that ferocious men believed so fiercely that they lived their lives by it, but none was so repeated in Eddie’s hearing as _it’s bad luck, having a woman on board._ When Eddie first meets her, he wonders: _are they really that accepting, or is whatever they’re chasing bad enough that it’d be worse not to have you?_

(Richie tells him stories in the dark one night, of smokestacks and screams and a girl who watched them all die in her dreams. It takes Eddie a long time before he wonders whether _all_ includes him too.)

The cook’s name is Ben, but every time Richie and Bill call him _Benny_ , his smile stretches so wide that Eddie’s half afraid his face is going to split. He sings to himself when he’s cooking, reads over Mike’s notes after dinner, and looks at Bev like she hung the moon. He and Mike are the only two who can stitch worth a damn, other than Eddie himself, and Eddie once asks him why he wears his pantalons so loose, when he’s so capable of tailoring them. “I prefer the freedom of it,” Benny says at long last, and Eddie thinks he can understand that. The desire for freedom, at any rate. Eddie privately thinks Benny might as well just nick a dress when they’re next on shore, if the looseness of the fabric gives him that freedom he craves, and when he mentions it to Richie offhand, the First Mate looks genuinely thoughtful. “That’s not a bad idea, Eds,” he says, and Eddie huffs. “Don’t call me Eds.”

Eddie likes all of them, despite himself, but the one who makes him truly feel like maybe he’s completely wrong about pirates, and always has been, is the Navigator. (“Stanley Uris,” he says quietly, with a hand reached out in offering for a shake. It’s the first hand to be offered to him since Richie’s, Eddie can’t help but note. This time, he takes it intentionally.) Eddie meets him last of all that first night, well after Benny’s put away the pots and plates, when the night stars shine above them and even Richie is quiet, squirrelled away in the crow’s nest with Bev (and, Eddie suspects, a bottle of rum). He’s trying to find Mike—figuring, probably correctly, that he’s the best option to talk to about where he’s meant to stay tonight, even if that means the brig, because Richie will make jokes and Bill will have unreasonable ideas, and Eddie can’t believe he’s already so _sure_ about these reads when he’s known them for about sixteen hours—and takes a wrong turn, ending up in a room completely defined by the gigantic table in the centre. Eddie’s eyes gravitate towards the spread out map, and he heads over eagerly. He doesn’t even know where they _are_ on the map; he doesn’t care. He just loves seeing it, loves seeing how big the world is, how much sea and salt and sand there is, how much _life_ is out there.

“Do you want to know where we are on it?” comes from the edge of the room and Eddie starts in surprise. He glances left to find the source and finds himself face to face with a tall, solemn man with a head of soft curls and a thoughtful gaze. “We’re about here,” the man says, striding towards the edge of the table and plucking a miniature model ship from the side, placing it on the map. “We picked you up from here,” he says, pointing to a land mass. Sure enough, Eddie can see it marked on the map: _Port Royal_. “I take it you’re the stowaway Richie’s been singing about all day,” the man adds, tone wry, and Eddie blushes, before frowning. 

“I didn’t mean to,” he says. “I just don’t like thieves.” It comes out without thinking, without any thought to the offence it might cause present company, but the man merely chuckles. 

“Now that you’re aboard a pirate ship, how do you feel that’s worked out for you?” he asks mildly.

“Poorly,” Eddie admits. “Though, I’m not sure you’re all that much like how pirates normally are.”

The man’s expression turns thoughtful yet again. “We’re not,” he says at last. “But I’ll wager most pirates aren’t quite what you’d expect either.”

* * *

Stan’s right. He almost always is, Eddie comes to find.

Pirates aren’t what Eddie expects. Some are, to be fair, and in a crowd, they’re the unruly mass he read about, bearing pistols and rum and itchy trigger fingers. More of them surprise him, though.

They make berth in Tortuga, and Eddie’s eyes are opened. _Wide_ open.

There’s rum and dancing and noise, women and swearing and fucking. Lots of fucking.

(“You know about fucking, don’t you, Eds?” Richie says with a grin, spotting Eddie’s expression after some women start hollering solicitations at them from outside the tavern. Eddie _thought_ he did—not from practice, but from sailor talk—but then he sees two men pressed against each other, so close that it almost hurts Eddie to look at them. His face is burning, and every nerve in his body is screaming at him to look away, but something in his gut desperately wants him to keep watching, to soak it up.

He looks away, refusing to catch Richie’s eye. The image sears into his brain anyway.)

Eddie catches the sleeve of Stan’s jacket, ignoring the way their fingers fumble against each other first, and tries not to think too much about the way Stan’s furrowed brow unknits when he realises it’s Eddie. “What are we doing here?” Eddie asks quietly.

“Here in this tavern or here on Tortuga?” Stan asks. It’s an underrated thing about Stan, Eddie thinks—his precision and consideration when a question is posed to him. It makes Eddie feel like what he’s saying or asking matters as much to Stan as it does himself, whether it’s a serious topic or something simple like nickname origins.

(“I don’t remember where it came from, honestly,” Stan says, looking a little perturbed by it. “I think it was something one of the other crews said to him, though—not Bowers’ gang, I know that much, but… I’m not sure who. I don’t know if it matters, though—at least anymore. He reclaimed it from them, and so did we.”

Eddie mulls this over. On one hand, it makes sense. The crew clearly all love Richie, and even when they call him Trashmouth, there’s an undercurrent of affection that you’d have to be oblivious to miss. It’s just… Eddie can’t help but wonder what it’s like to have a nickname like that. Especially if it didn’t start as a nickname—especially if it wasn’t always something between friends. He believes that Richie’s reclaimed it, believes that Richie took whatever power it used to have and gave it a new power in the mouths of his friends—he just can’t help but wonder how much it stung the first time that it made Richie _want_ to reclaim it, to make it lose those sharp edges.

He thinks about Richie’s laughing mouth not being able to smile at something, and something in his chest aches.)

“Both,” Eddie says.

Stan is quiet, even for him—it’s kind of astounding how Eddie can notice it, given how loud their surroundings are, but it’s like Stan takes on a new level of stillness, and it stands out starkly against all the motion behind him. At least to Eddie. It’s funny—Stan’s so still that Eddie could find him in any room, sense him in the absence of movement, and Richie’s always in motion, and Eddie’s eyes can’t help but follow him. They’re so very different, and he shouldn’t really be noticing either, and yet. There he is, noticing them anyway.

“How much do you know about what we’re doing?” Stan finally asks. Eddie blinks.

“Honestly not much,” he says. “You need my medallion for something, and you’re trying to—” Eddie breaks off, hesitates, twists his mouth. “It’s about Bill’s brother,” he says instead. He doesn’t know if they’re trying to save Bill’s brother, or if they’re trying to avenge some terrible thing that happened to him. Somehow, Eddie thinks it’s both.

Stan inclines his head. “It’s a long story, but we need information, and resources. Tortuga has both.”

Eddie tries not to let that feel like being shut out. He’s not even a _crew_ member, for fuck’s sake, and Stan’s already showed him so many things he probably shouldn’t show an outsider, let alone a _stowaway_ , like their routes and navigational systems. He’s got no right to feel excluded.

Then there’s a hand catching his wrist. Eddie’s breath hitches, and he glances down to where Stan’s fingers have wrapped themselves around his arm. He meets Stan’s eyes, darker than usual, conveying something more than their regular intensity.

“It’s a long story,” he repeats. “But it’s one I’ll tell you later.”

He releases Eddie’s wrist and moves forward, walking past him. Eddie stares after him, open-mouthed, wrist still tingling from the memory of Stan’s touch.

* * *

“He’s got spirit and half a fighting chance,” Eddie hears Richie say desperately. “What the fuck more could you ask for from a captain?”

Eddie thinks he could probably ask a lot, but something about it stirs him anyway. The pirate Richie’s talking to clearly agrees because he stays and listens, despite the skeptical expression on his face.

“Got an eye on Trashmouth Tozier, do you, lad?”

Eddie glances up and meets the eye of the bartender. Before he can say anything—explain that he knows Richie, or object to the implication, and when the _fuck_ did he become Richie, when the fuck did any of them become anything other than the thieving pirates he ended up stowed away with, what in the _fuck_ , Eddie—another pirate pipes up.

“He’s bad news, him and his whole crew… fighting a losing battle, they are,” he says sagely.

“How’d you mean?” Eddie asks, and winces. His accent stands out, a society boy amongst thieves, but luckily they’re all too smashed to notice—or maybe they have their own histories to escape, and are not in the mind to question anyone else’s. Eddie gets the sense that Tortuga is a place for people to reinvent themselves, or perhaps find themselves outside the bounds they’ve always been given by the rest of the world. His eyes stray to Benny, standing in the corner with Mike, something in his eyes different than the rest of the pirates’ as they watch the women dancing and laughing in the centre of the room.

“Y’ever heard of Pennywise?” the pirate asks.

Eddie’s expression must be blank, because the man sighs. “‘Course you haven’t, young’un like you—you’d only’ve been a welp when he was last seen around these parts. Must’ve been eight years now? Nine? Maybe even ten, my mem’ry’s not what it used to be… The fucker must’ve taken about fifty of them…”

“Fifty what?” Eddie asks, but he has a sick feeling in his stomach, like maybe he already knows. 

The pirate blinks. “Fifty _kids_ ,” he says. There’s a certain relish to his tone, like he’s enjoying drinking in Eddie’s horror, and part of Eddie pledges right there and then that no matter what else, no matter what he sees, he’ll never become as jaded as this old man, never take so much enjoyment out of someone else’s suffering just because it’s a shock. There’s another voice in his head that’s asking exactly how long he expects to be in this world, because there’s no question of being exposed to anything this awful in Port Royal, but he sets it aside.

“It wasn’t fifty kids, it was thirty,” a voice suddenly says clearly, cutting through the noise and the rising horror in Eddie’s mind. He doesn’t have to look to know it’s Richie, but he looks anyway. Something about the sight of him calms Eddie, like the haphazard dark curls anchor him, and the familiarity of him at Eddie’s side coils warmly in his stomach.

“It was over the course of a year,” Richie says, staring unflinchingly at the pirate who’d been regaling Eddie with his tale. The man tries to keep a stubborn expression up, but ends up looking away. Eddie’s never really thought of Richie as intimidating, not when he’s always had laughing eyes and an infuriatingly warm twist to his mouth, but there’s a look in his eyes right now which brooks no argument, which _sees_ with a sharp perception that Eddie’s always been distantly aware of him possessing, but never really seen weaponised. “It started when I was about ten—I’m not sure who the first kid was, or the last, but I knew a few of the kids taken. One better than the rest.”

“Bill’s brother,” Eddie whispers. Richie inclines his head.

“Georgie,” he says fondly. “Best fucking kid in the world. He _loved_ boats—not even ships, just your average dinghy. Always loved seeing how they moved through the water, how fucking fast they could go just from the power of the sea alone… that’s how the clown got him.”

“Sorry, the _what?”_ Eddie asks.

Richie shrugs. “If you’d ever seen him, you’d get it. Looks like he’s from a fucking pantomime. Maybe that’s how he gets them, looking so weird and colourful compared to what these kids usually see, I have no fucking clue. When I saw him, there was fuck nothing enticing about him.”

“You _saw_ him?” the pirate asks incredulously.

“What, you think we’ve been chasing a ghost story this whole time?” Richie asks acerbically. There’s a weird note to his voice, though—not like he’s lying, but like there’s something bitter hidden in there. Eddie frowns.

“So the curse…” the other man says, and Eddie blinks.

“There’s a curse?” he asks.

Richie glances at him sidelong. It’s unexpectedly intense. “Yeah,” he says. “There’s a curse.”

“Supposedly they’re cursed to never die,” the bartender says.

“Doesn’t really sound like a curse,” Eddie says. He’d imagined a lot worse for the fate of thirty children stolen by a pirate whom even the Tortuga blackhearts swore about. 

“They’re not really alive either,” Richie says quietly. He looks on edge, Eddie thinks, like this isn’t something he likes to think about. Eddie can’t blame him. Without even really thinking about it, he shifts his weight, pressing against Richie’s side. Richie’s breath hitches, but his voice is steadier when he speaks. Eddie doesn’t know what to think about that.

“They can’t eat, or drink—or really taste anything, I guess. They’re decomposing, but they can’t die,” he says. Eddie takes it back. He can’t imagine anything worse. He imagines an eight year old decomposing, never getting older, never getting any peace, and he wants to throw up.

 _“Decomposing?”_ Eddie demands.

Richie grimaces. “In the moonlight—look, the story goes that Pennywise took them all to the Isla de Muerta, made them each take a piece of the cursed gold, and then sailed the fuck off, with the chest on his ship, the _Neibolt_. Supposedly the deal is that in fifty years he’ll set them free, once they’ve helped him terrorise the seas to his satisfaction.”

“He’s like Davy Jones,” Eddie says in horror.

“Davy Jones keeps his promises,” the bartender says grimly. Richie points at him in agreement.

“Pennywise never had a fucking intention of setting them free,” Richie says. “So we stole the chest ourselves from his ship—”

“Wait, you went _on_ the ship?” Eddie asks, shocked.

“Where’d you think Stan got those scars on his face from?” Richie asks grimly, and Eddie feels like the ground is tilting beneath his feet. He’d noticed them, of course—it was pretty hard to miss what almost looked like teeth marks on the face of someone you spent a lot of time with—but he hadn’t asked, trying to puzzle out what could possibly cause scars like that himself. He has the sudden, sickening thought that teeth marks perhaps wasn’t that unreasonable of a suspicion.

“Anyway, we found the Isla de Muerta after a while—took a _lot_ of research from Mike, a lot of strategies and tricky navigation from Stan, and the skewed memories from Georgie—”

“You talked to him?” Eddie interrupts, surprised.

Richie’s mouth twists. “Bill had to shoot him,” he says, and Eddie fucking _gasps_. “He’s okay—well, I mean, he’s cursed, but it didn’t kill him, obviously, it just…”

“Bill never forgot,” Stan says quietly, stepping up from behind them. Richie nods.

“We all have our demons,” Richie says, “but Bill’s wear his own face.”

* * *

“Penny for your thoughts, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie says, swinging his arms on the balustrade and sliding beneath it, slotting in next to Eddie, both their legs hanging over the edge.

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie says automatically, before chewing his lip. “So. The curse is real. 100% bona fide?”

Richie gives him a look that’s difficult to read. Almost… resigned, maybe. Sad. “Yeah—did you think I was just talking trash to that asshole? Thought Stanny backing me up would convince you.”

There’s something fake about his voice when he says it, like he’s trying to sound unbothered. Eddie frowns.

“It’s not that,” Eddie says seriously. “I believe you.”

Richie’s eyes widen, but he quickly says, “Oh? So what’s up?”

“You just… you were weird when you were talking about the curse,” Eddie lets out in a rush. He feels weird, like, where does he get off acting like he _knows_ Richie, like he knows his tells? But… “Like it was true, but you didn’t believe it all. I don’t know how to explain it.”

Richie is quiet for a second. “The curse is real,” he says after a few moments. “There’s no denying that. I just… don’t know if we can break it.”

Eddie blinks, stills, thinks: _oh_.

“What happened on the Isla de Muerta?” he asks quietly. Stan had suggested they head back to the ship rather than continue the tale for their drinking buddy, and they had in silence. Eddie understands if Richie doesn’t want to talk about it, but he feels like maybe Richie does. Like maybe Richie’s been loud his whole life looking for someone to listen to him talk. Eddie doesn’t know why he thinks he’s somehow a good choice for it, but he’s there, and, surprisingly, even to himself, willing to listen.

Richie exhales. “We’d stolen the chest, yeah? Took us a while, but we managed to piece a path to the Isla de Muerta from Bill’s recounting of what Georgie said, Mike’s research and Stan poring over every fucking map he could find and piecing together all the uncharted space. So we head to the island, nearly fucking _die_ in the straits, but we get there and return the chest. Curse over, yeah? Except no.”

There’s a brooding expression on Richie’s face, and Eddie shifts slightly, swivelling his head to look at him better.

“We chased stories about where the _Neibolt_ was desperately for seven months,” Richie says hollowly. This isn’t a Voice, Eddie notes; nothing about this is a performance. It’s just the tired, bleak truth. “When we caught up, we charged on, not thinking about anything except if the kids were okay, if Georgie was okay, and how we had to get them out of there.” He’s quiet for a moment. “It was daylight, you see.”

Eddie doesn’t follow, then his mind brings forth a memory of Richie earlier, mentioning the moonlight. “You said something about the moonlight earlier,” Eddie ventures.

Richie lets out a sharp laugh. “Yeah. God, forgot I didn’t explain that—the curse is only visible in the moonlight. They look like you or me at any other time, but the moonlight… I dunno, there’s stories about the moon being a sign of truth or whatever… I never put much stock in ghost stories, but then I started living in one.” He looks out towards the ocean, but Eddie doesn’t think he’s seeing anything. “But, yeah. We looked over and saw them looking human, and Bill… he just so desperately wanted Georgie to be okay that he didn’t think about the sunlight. Or didn’t let himself think about it. I’m still not sure which it is.”

“What happened?” Eddie asks. He can barely hear himself, he’s so quiet, but Richie responds anyway.

“We got out,” Richie says. “I hit Pennywise with a bat, and then we all used whatever the fuck we had. Bev almost got stuck on there, but Benny grabbed her out—and then we gunned it out of there.” His expression takes on a strange twist. “You know what, I’m pretty sure the clown let us go. I mean, he wanted to take us—to kill us or for something worse, I have no fucking clue—but when it became obvious we were out of there… he didn’t give chase. He could’ve caught us. Unlike us, they don’t need sleep.”

“Why?” Eddie asks. “I mean, why’d you think?”

“I think it’s because he knew it wasn’t over,” Richie says slowly. “That we weren’t giving up… yet. He’s like a cat with a mouse, giving us a chance to escape but it’s not a real one. We’re still in his reach.” His expression turns determined. “‘Course, that just means we’ll have to prove him wrong.”

“I thought you didn’t think we could break the curse,” Eddie says, and Richie gives him a funny look. It takes a moment for Eddie to realise he said _we_.

“I honestly don't know. After we escaped, Bill and I had a fight about it. Worst fight of our lives, and only real one. I even…” Richie grimaces for a second, then says, “I even left the crew for a bit.”

Eddie’s honestly shocked. Whatever else, that was the one thing Eddie would never have guessed. He knows he was taken aback to discover Richie was the First Mate, but he’s gotten to know them a lot since then, and it’s incredibly difficult for him to imagine Bill and Richie ever having been apart. He would swear up and down that they’d both die for each other; but maybe that was the problem. Maybe it’s one thing to know you’d die for someone, and another thing to be in a position where you’re asked to do it. Eddie’s not sure. He’s never been in that position himself. He’s not sure what he’d do. He’d like to think he’d do anything for the people he cares about, and for the right thing—he’s just not sure if he knows who they are, or what that is, anymore.

“Yeah, I know, right? Who keeps the kid who ran off as their First Mate?” Richie says sardonically. “Bill fucking Denbrough, that’s who. Not that I was wrong—I’m still right, I think, like… this is a death match. But.”

“But?”

“But there’s a chance, you know? I’m sticking around, no matter what—I’m stickin’ with Big Bill, and I’ll always follow him fucking anywhere—but there’s a chance to save them. It took a while. Mike found more legends, Bev chased more ghost stories, Benny swapped gossip on the shores and Stan pored over maps… and even me, I guess. I hopped from ship to shore to ship and wound back up in Tortuga when they were back, my head full of whispers and the look in Bill’s eye when he first saw Georgie and thought he was cured, and then the way he looked when he had to shoot him fucking _again_. Mike figured it out in the end. We think, anyway. So, story goes that whoever took the gold has to return it, and at first we thought, maybe it was because we stole it, but Mikey reckons that’s not it. The kids who took the gold ended up putting each of their pieces into that chest the fucking clown had, so letter of interpretation gives us room for that to be it—that them putting it in the chest was them returning it, and we’re just the vessel.”

“So… what’s missing?” Eddie asks, but he thinks he has an idea.

“I’m looking at him,” Richie says, before amending, “well, your medallion, but given the voluntary return… Mike was worried about it, _real_ worried, and then you showed up in the brig and it was just like fucking Christmas.”

“Is _that_ why you were so excited? When you saw me, I mean,” Eddie clarifies.

Richie looks caught out, then his face smooths. “Well, that and how you’re a real cutie,” he teases. Eddie rolls his eyes, blushing, and shoves Richie in the side.

“Shut up,” he grumbles. “You’re a real ass sometimes, you know that?”

“I know,” Richie says, but he sounds so fond that Eddie’s heart fucking stops in his chest.

“So that’s why you didn’t make me walk the plank,” Eddie muses. Richie’s hand drops suddenly, and Eddie looks up in surprise. He hadn’t even realised it had ever been in motion. He wonders what Richie had been planning on doing.

“Do you really think we’d make you walk the plank, Eds?” Richie asks softly.

Eddie shrugs uncomfortably. “You didn’t know me,” he points out.

Richie eyes him carefully, but lets the matter drop.

“So… how’d you find my medallion?” Eddie asks.

Richie blinks, then grins. “Oh, it seems to have some sort of homing beacon. We have the gold on the ship with us, see, because we couldn’t risk leaving it at the island in case Pennywise went back there to steal it back. At least if we have it, we can make sure it’s returned, yeah? Anyway, there was this… _pulse_ , I guess, in the ocean that day, and it led us to you. Did you fall in the water or something?”

Eddie’s mouth falls open. “I—I mean, yeah, sort of… I was having trouble breathing and sort of… fainted. And fell. One of the other boys at the port saw and got me out, though, so I didn’t really think about it. Kinda overshadowed by pirates raiding Port Royal and a pirate in a fucking eyesore of a shirt stealing my medallion, you know?”

Richie laughs. “You love my shirts,” he says, and Eddie flushes. He can’t deny that something about Richie’s sleeves always catch his attention, how billowy they are, but he’ll be damned if he admits that.

“I have taste, actually,” Eddie says wryly, before adding, “so you just… followed the pulse?”

Richie’s expression shifts. “It was like the sea brought us there—and, ‘course, there was the fear that maybe it would bring the _Neibolt_ there too. We had the gold, but they have the actual curse. We had to get there first, or else it’d all be for nothing.”

Eddie’s digesting this when Richie speaks again. “I’ve been meaning to ask… Eds, where’d you even _get_ a pirate medallion? Let alone cursed gold.”

Eddie hesitates, then looks at Richie, at his open face and bright eyes. Richie trusted him with a lot tonight. He can return the favour, right?

“It was with my father’s effects,” he says quietly, twisting his hands around each other. A horrifying thought occurs to him, and he looks up at Richie in alarm. “God, does that mean he was part of the crew? The ones that helped steal the children?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, that’s a _big_ leap, Eds,” Richie says soothingly.

Eddie is not soothed. “Really? Because it seems like a pretty fucking horrifying but reasonable deduction from what you’ve told me,” Eddie snaps. It’s not Richie he’s mad at, but Richie’s there.

“Eds, calm down,” Richie says. “Look, we’re not the only people in the world who’ve tried to stop this guy, right? Like, there’s all the other people who knew a kid who got taken, and you heard that fuck in Tortuga—obviously he had some details wrong, but the stories _spread_. Maybe your dad was trying to take it back. Any coins that weren’t on that ship were automatically safer, far as I can see, because at least they had a chance at getting _back_. Pennywise has no fucking intention of freeing those kids, I promise you, and most people wouldn’t have a chance in hell at getting on that ship. We were just young enough to pull it off, young enough to still believe in all the ghost stories and old enough to do what we had to.”

Eddie’s trying to listen, but he’s stuck in his head. For _years_ , he’s cheered himself up by thinking that his father, even if he’s not there, even if he’s gone where Eddie can’t follow, at least was a good man, an honest man, a sailor who loved the sea like Eddie does, who loves ships the same way. And if that’s not true… Eddie’s not sure what is.

“Eddie? Eds, listen to me—what was your dad like?” Richie asks, and his voice grounds Eddie, anchors him to the moment. Eddie’s never told Richie this, but as much as he laughs at or teases or enjoys the Voices Richie puts on when he’s entertaining the crew, his favourite has always been this voice right now, the one that’s just pure, raw Richie, uncertainties and laughter and urgency and affection and all.

“He—he—” Eddie tries, then takes a deep breath. “He was a sailor. He liked to show me the ships at the harbour. He gave coins to kids on the street and his eyes crinkled when he laughed. He let me do things, not like my Ma, and he was meant to come home but a box came instead. It was full of journals and clothes and lots of things that made my mother cry. And that medallion. And he wanted to live. He said he was coming home, he wrote it in his journals.”

Richie gently swipes his hand against Eddie’s cheek, and Eddie realises he’s tearing up. “See?” Richie says. “Bet you anything he was on one of the crews that heard the stories and tried to do something about it. Bet he was going to take it back himself.”

“You can’t _know_ that,” Eddie says weakly.

“No,” Richie agrees. “I can’t. But neither can you, and my theory sounds way more in line with what you described. Yeah?”

Eddie breathes in. “Yeah,” he says finally.

Richie grins. “Good,” he says. “Now—are you willing to finish the journey?”

Eddie looks at him uncomprehendingly. 

“Are you willing to take the medallion back, and deliver it freely?” Richie clarifies.

 _Oh_. Eddie thinks about what Richie said about how the person has to return it, thinks about blood and legacies and tradition, thinks about how he stumbled onto this adventure in a fit of stubbornness and a refusal to let crime slide, thinks about his father.

“Yes,” he says resolutely, lifting his chin.

Richie’s answering grin is _blinding_.

* * *

“Eddie,” Stan says, and he sounds so _excited_ that Eddie falls out of the hammock in his haste to look at him. Stan rushes over, agile despite the storm they’re in, and kneels at Eddie’s side immediately. “Are you okay?” he asks, checking over him.

“Just embarrassed,” Eddie grumbles.

Stan laughs. It’s a nice laugh, Eddie thinks. Not quite the rich, affectionate amusement of Richie’s, nor as breathless as Eddie’s own cackle, but something soft and wry, a steady huff of warmth. “Trust me, I’ve seen Rich do much worse,” he says. His voice is so _fond_ , in a way Eddie’s never really heard except when he’s talking about Richie, and Eddie feels… odd. On one hand, weirdly like he gets it, which, _no_ , stop being the biggest disgrace to law-abiding citizens _everywhere_ , Eds, and _fuck_ , did he just refer to himself the way Richie refers to him? He is going to have _words_ with himself. On the other hand, though, there’s something sharp in Eddie’s chest when he hears that tone in Stan’s voice. He doesn’t even know how to begin detangling it. It’s the same way he’d feel when he was younger and desperate to run to the docks with the other kids, run until his breath gave out, run run _run_ , faster than any of them. His mother never let him, and for some reason, that’s what he’s reminded of in these moments.

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Eddie says in the end. He thinks his voice might be fond too, fonder than it ought to be. He tries not to think about that. “Anyway, what’s got you so excited?”

Stan lights up, and Eddie’s breath fucking _hitches_. “I think I’ve got our route figured out—do you want to see?” he asks, and Eddie’s nodding before he even finishes the question. With another soft laugh, Stan clambers up and offers Eddie his hand. Eddie takes it, like always.

They spend about an hour in Stan’s navigation room, with Stan patiently explaining their path to Eddie, and describing the various obstacles they have to overcome on the way there. Whenever Eddie’s with Stan, he feels like the world exists just for the two of them. It’s steady and tender and everything Eddie doesn’t know how to handle, and suddenly all he can think of is those two pirates he saw in Tortuga, with their bodies pressed together, and he flushes to the roots of his hair. Then, suddenly, he remembers Richie’s grin, Richie’s voice saying _you know about fucking, don’t you, eds?_ , and it’s fucking _mortifying_. Even with all that in his head, he can’t stop thinking about the way Stan looks right now, concentrating intently on the lines he’s drawing for his map, or the way Stan’s hand felt in his own earlier, and it’s just completely fucking overwhelming.

After a while, Stan’s ears prick up. Eddie, who only notices this because of how closely his eyes were fixed on the taller man, starts. Stan’s grinning, and beckons Eddie to come with him. He does.

They end up on the deck. The storm’s stopped, or they’ve sailed out of it—Eddie honestly didn’t even notice. He guesses his head and heart were turbulent enough that he didn’t even realise the waves had calmed.

Mike’s singing. That’s the first thing Eddie notices. He has a rich, velvety voice, and it makes Eddie think of warmth, like sunlight and honey.

The next thing he notices is Bev and Richie. They’re dancing together, some sort of jig that involves a lot of jumping, spinning and laughing. Richie picks Bev up and spins her around, before they both collapse onto each other and into giggles.

Then Richie catches sight of Stan and Eddie, and absolutely beams. Eddie doesn’t know which of them it’s for, but he can’t help it. He grins back.

“Eds! Come dance with me!” he shouts.

“What am I, chopped liver?” Bev demands, looking absolutely unoffended.

“You can dance with Benny,” Richie says unrepentantly.

“He’s probably a better dancer than you anyway,” Bev says thoughtfully.

“Hey!” Richie protests indignantly. “I’m _excellent_ , thank you very much. C’mon, Eds, let’s show her.”

Part of Eddie is _screaming_ to go forward and take Richie’s hand, but another part is absolutely adamant that he shouldn’t, what the fuck, Eddie, who even _are_ you anymore?

Eddie’s not sure. He’s not the same person he was when he left Port Royal… but part of him still is. There was always this person underneath it all, or else he’d have never had the guts to sneak onto a pirate ship in the first place, right? He was all stubborn, fearless righteousness, thinking about nothing except what was _right_. And now look at him: finding the right things in all the wrong places. God, what would his mother think if she could see him now, genuinely believing in pirates, wanting to take their hands?

“What the fuck,” he mutters to himself. “All right,” he says, stepping forward and taking Richie’s hand. Richie’s expression is so delighted that it almost hurts to look at him, so Eddie glances backwards, and catches sight of Stan. Eddie has no idea what his expression means, but his eyes are soft and his mouth is quirked up at the side, and something in Eddie’s heart beats faster.

“Belt out a slow one, Mikey!” Richie calls out, and Eddie gives him a startled look. Richie winks, then inclines his head towards Benny and Bev. It looks like Bev’s leading, Benny focusing on careful, gentle steps. Eddie smiles.

Richie suddenly spins him, and Eddie whirls out, before being pulled back into Richie’s arms. True to command, Mike _does_ sing a slow one—at least at first. The tempo rises, and Richie lets out a hoot of joyful laughter, pulling Eddie close and then twirling him out again. To their side, Benny and Bev are moving all around the deck, whirling faster and faster, laughing breathlessly, and even Bill and Stan are tapping their feet. Bill grabs Mike by the hand, tugging him in, and there’s no music now, except for whatever Richie and Bev sing out at random moments, but that doesn’t matter. The wind is their music, and the waves crashing against the hull. The thuds of their feet against the wood, the ringing of their laughter, and every breathless gasp—it’s all their soundtrack. Richie spins Eddie out and doesn’t whirl him back in this time; instead, Stan catches him, pressed against his chest, and Eddie’s heart thuds so fast he expects Stan can feel it.

“My turn?” Stan asks with a smile, and Eddie swallows.

“With me, or with Richie?” he asks.

Stan looks thoughtful. “Why not both?” he asks, and Eddie thinks his brain short-circuits right then and there.

“I can barely dance with just one person,” Eddie admits, and Stan laughs softly.

“It’s okay,” he says conspiratorially. “I’m sure Richie has some enthusiastic idea about how to pull it off.”

Richie absolutely _whoops_ when he sees them both coming towards him. “I thought you’d just ditch me for Stanny, honestly, Eds,” he says. Eddie frowns. It doesn’t sound like he’s joking, but Eddie had thought it would have made more sense for Richie to ditch _him_ for Stan, not the other way around.

“I told Stan I can barely dance with you, let alone two people,” Eddie says instead of pressing the issue.

Richie’s eyes light up. “ _That’s_ not a problem,” he says. “We can totally do a three person dance, Eds. You just gotta dream a little bigger, babe.”

“Don’t call me babe,” Eddie says, half a second too late to be automatic. Barrelling on, he adds, “Do you have much experience with dancing with three people?”

“You wanna hear about my experience, huh?” Richie asks, waggling his eyebrows. Eddie groans.

“Forget I said anything,” he says, making to move away, and Richie’s eyes actually widen as he moves to catch Eddie’s hand.

“No, okay, I promise I won’t say anything,” Richie says quickly.

Stan snorts. “Anything? That’s a big promise, Rich,” he teases.

“Okay, anything dirty,” Richie corrects.

“Still big,” Stan says. Eddie glances at him sidelong. His tone is almost… baiting?

“That’s what sh—dammit, Stan!” Richie interrupts himself, and Stan bursts out laughing. Richie ends up grinning, jostling Stan in the side with his elbow, and Eddie just… feels so warm. Like he could watch them laugh forever. That weird feeling from before is gone, the one that reminded him of wanting to run. Instead, standing with them, he kind of feels like he’s already running, wind whipping through his hair, lungs straining but filled with freedom.

“Here,” Stan says, and Eddie turns. Stan’s holding his hand out to him again, and, like always, Eddie takes it. Stan wraps his other arm around Richie’s shoulder, who then leans and offers Eddie his hand. Eddie takes it, and then—they’re moving, swaying first, then whipping around, and Eddie doesn’t even know who’s leading anymore; he just knows he’s never felt as content in his life as he does right now. He thinks maybe he could follow them forever.

* * *

It’s the night before they’re due to arrive at the Isla de Muerta according to Stan’s navigating, and the atmosphere on board is peculiar.

Benny and Bev are sitting together at the bow of the ship, talking in hushed tones. Eddie doesn’t think they’re trying to keep secrets, though; they’re just in their own world right now, a quiet piece of the night just for them. Bev’s sitting cross-legged, drumming her fingers against the wood of the deck; Benny’s legs are curled up beneath him, and he’s focused on stitching a spare sail patiently as they talk.

Mike and Stan are at the helm, discussing things at length. Stan’s standing tall, sharp eyes on the horizon, even in the dark, and Mike’s examining the wheel itself, affixing some navigational instruments to it for tomorrow’s difficult passage. Bill’s somewhere to their left, flicking open his compass and staring at it intently. After a while, it occurs to Eddie that the current setup means Richie is unoccupied somewhere else, and he decides to go look for him. Out of concern for the ship, of course. 

He finds Richie below deck, what looks like two and a half bottles of rum in.

“God, Richie, really?” Eddie asks, wrinkling his nose. “Won’t that go to your head come morning?”

Richie shrugs. “We’re fighting the devil,” Richie says, “and _Silver_ ’s pretty fast—” he pats the wood of the ship walls, “—but just in case, you know?”

Eddie frowns. “What, do you plan on still being drunk by the time we get there?” He tries not to think about the idea of there being a final fight. It’s always been pretty likely, he knows, and Bill and Richie seem absolutely _convinced_ that the _Neibolt_ ’s going to show her face there tomorrow night, but he can’t help but hope they can get out without it. Then again, he knows they have to find the ship at some point anyway. Breaking the curse is only half the battle; they still have to save the kids once they free them. Maybe it’s better to get it all over and done with.

“It’s more about going in,” Richie says after a moment.

Eddie thinks about this. “Is it about the kids?” he asks, brow furrowed.

Richie winks, making a hand gesture like a gun and flicking it at Eddie. “Bingo, Eds,” he says. “Don’t want to have to leave Georgie behind for the third time. Or any of them.”

Eddie’s heart thuds. He can’t believe that when he first met Richie, he thought he was just some laughing thief with shitty taste in appropriate colours.

“Hey,” Eddie says softly, stepping forward. “It’s going to work.”

Richie laughs, but it’s not an amused sound. “Oh yeah? How’d you know?”

“Because they need it to,” Eddie says simply. And it’s not an answer, not really; Eddie knows how the universe pays absolutely no attention to what anyone thinks they need. But it’s all he’s got. And it’ll have to be enough. They’ve got things worth fighting for, and whatever it takes to get them stepping off the ship and onto that island, they have to do it.

Richie’s leaning against the wall, and Eddie can smell the rum on his breath. “God, you’re cute,” he breathes, a little laugh to his words, but Eddie doesn’t think it’s a joke. Richie’s expression is thoughtful, gentle, like this isn’t a new thought at all, like this isn’t brought on by alcohol but something deeper, closer to his core.

“Sweet words from a kidnapper,” Eddie says, and it’s half a joke, and half a defense, and there’s no heat behind it regardless but something in Richie’s eyes shifts anyway.

“Do you really think that of us?” Richie asks quietly, and Eddie’s breath hitches. There’s a movement behind them in the shadows, and Eddie whips his head towards the noise, and blinks when Stan emerges from the stairs. The expression on his face suggests he heard Richie’s question, and is also invested in an answer.

It feels like they’re asking about more than what they said, and everything in Eddie is screaming.

He takes a deep breath, and thinks about it. There’s no question here, not really. First of all, _he_ stowed away on the _Silver_ , not the other way around; secondly, he knows them all now. There’s a voice in the back of his head that sounds like his mother that still says his thoughts are wrong, are _dirty_ , that he shouldn’t be having those thoughts about men at all, let alone pirates, and he certainly shouldn’t be thinking of these pirates by _name_ , let alone letting those names roll around on his tongue each night as he falls asleep.

He hates giving in, always has, and answering the question at all kind of feels like giving in —- but then he thinks about Richie spilling his secrets and fears about this path they’ve all set themselves on, thinks about the way Stan always makes space for him without him needing to fight for it, thinks about the way they both hold their hands out for him over and over, and never let him go when he’s trusting them to hold him steady.

Maybe not everything’s a battle. Maybe giving in doesn’t have to mean losing, but just breathing someone else in. Or someones.

He takes another deep breath, then shakes his head. “No,” he says hoarsely. “Of course not.”

It’s one of the scariest things he’s ever said, because he doesn’t entirely understand exactly how _much_ he’s answering here, but then he sees how Richie’s eyes shine, and the way Stan’s lips glimmer with a smile, and he thinks that maybe it’s worth it, whatever it is.

* * *

It’s fucking mayhem.

It’s so fast, so chaotic, that Eddie only experiences everything in flashes.

There’s Bill crossing swords with the fucking clown himself, and then stepping into the moonlight when Pennywise stabs him, and shows that he took a piece of the gold for himself as a battle strategy. Eddie can’t decide if it’s brilliant or horrifying. Maybe both. Bill Denbrough’s possibly the most reckless person he’s ever met.

Mike’s gotten this huge pole stuck between these adults’ rib cages—they all made an unspoken promise not to hurt any of the kids, no matter what they did under Pennywise’s command—and Bev flings a grenade in the stomach of the middle one, before she and Mike push them into the shadows and watch them explode.

Then Eddie’s up on top of the mound of gold, Benny having dragged the chest there, and he puts his gold and Bill’s gold in at the same time, and it’s over, it’s _over_ , Bill’s got a bullet buried in Pennywise’s fucking chest, and—

Then a bullet rings out, and Eddie is stumbling, falling down the mound. There’s blood on his chest, on his hands. It’s not his.

“Stan, Stan, what the fuck, Stan,” someone is saying desperately. It takes Eddie a moment to realise it’s him.

 _“Richie!”_ he shouts, and Richie whips his head over. The colour drains from his face, and then he runs over, and all Eddie can think is _it has to be okay. It’s going to be okay. It has to be_.

* * *

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says, wringing his hands.

It’s the first thing he’s managed to say since they got back to the _Silver_. Bill, Benny and Bev are still on the island, rounding up all the children and, in Bill’s case, sharing a teary reunion with Georgie, but Mike and Richie moved Stan immediately to the Captain’s quarters, Eddie accompanying them.

Mike’s tending to Stan and Eddie just feels so fucking _guilty._

Richie stares at him. “What?” he asks, incredulous. “What are you sorry for?”

Eddie stares back. “He’s there because of _me_ ,” Eddie says desperately. “Don’t you see? He took that fucking bullet for me. It should have—”

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ say it should have been you,” Richie interrupts sharply. Eddie steps back, open-mouthed. “Don’t you—” Richie breaks off, before letting out a frustrated cry. Mike doesn’t even bat an eye, but simply continues tending to Stan. “I wouldn’t trade you for him, or him for you, Eds,” Richie says in a low, furtive voice. “Don’t you get that? I wouldn’t trade _either_ of you for the other—it’s—it’s a package deal, do you understand me? It’s a package deal.”

Eddie knows something had changed with all of them the night before, with the question he answered and the charged looks they’d shared, but he’d still…. He doesn’t know. Thought that he’d still meant _less_ , maybe. Not even as a self-worth thing, though that was a factor, but just because of how long Richie and Stan had known each other, how _much_ they clearly cared about each other.

Eddie never dreamed that he could mean as much.

“I need…” Richie trails off, running his hand through his hair. He glances back at Stan and stifles a sob. “I need to—I’m gonna—”

“Why don’t you go help Bill?” Mike suggests gently. He doesn’t turn away from Stan, but it’s clear he’s addressing Richie. “Georgie’s been stuck on that fucking ship for about a decade—I bet Bill could use a friend right now.”

Richie nods. “Yeah. Yeah, yeah, I’ll go…” He glances at Eddie. “Is that—will you—”

“I’ll be okay,” Eddie reassures him. “I’ll stay with Stan.”

Richie nods once more, throws Stan one last broken-hearted look, then rushes off.

Eddie sits with Mike, stroking Stan’s hair, and waits.

* * *

“Eddie?”

Eddie lifts his head blearily, then immediately wakes up when he sees Stan’s eyes are open.

“Stan, holy shit, I was so scared,” Eddie says. “Don’t you _ever_ do that again!” His eyes are prickling, and he realises he’s probably tearing up, but he can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed. He’s too fucking relieved that Stan’s okay.

Stan smiles. “I hope we don’t have to fight any more immortal pirate crews with a penchant for kidnapping,” he says wryly, “but I’d do it again.”

Eddie bursts into tears, and leans forward and presses a kiss to Stan’s lips. It’s warm, and soft, and tender, and everything Eddie thought kissing was supposed to be. He sighs, and then jumps back.

“Shit, sorry, I’m so sorry, I just—” he starts rambling, and Stan interrupts him.

“Eddie,” he says calmly, softly, affectionately. Eddie forces himself to shut up.

“Yeah?” he says, heart hammering in his chest.

“I’m glad you kissed me,” Stan says gently. “I’d have had a hard time instigating it while I’m stuck lying down here, and I really want to kiss you.”

Eddie feels like he might pass out. Then the door opens, and Richie runs in, and Eddie _really_ feels like he might pass out.

 _“Stan!”_ Richie cries out, and he throws himself at the ground next to Stan’s bed, kneeling next to him. “Holy shit, I’m so fucking—don’t you _ever_ do that again, you absolute motherfucker, you scared the shit out of me, I thought—”

“Richie,” Stan says calmly, interrupting Richie. Eddie, much to his own horror, starts to giggle. It’s just so fucking _funny_ to see Richie reacting the _exact same way_ he did. “I’m fine,” Stan says, ignoring Eddie’s giggle. Richie, on the other hand, is staring at Eddie with incredulity, but he whips back to Stan at that.

“You took a _bullet_ ,” Richie says.

“Definition of not fine,” Eddie adds.

“Got me a kiss, though, didn’t it?” Stan says, and his tone is casual, but Eddie gets the feeling there’s nothing casual about it.

Richie’s head whips back to Eddie, then to Stan, then to Eddie again. “You mean….” he says, voice cracking.

Stan places a hand on his. “Rich,” he says softly. “It’s not an or, it’s an and.”

Eddie doesn’t even know what to make of that, has no point of reference for _that_ particular conversation, but something about it settles Richie, and he turns to Eddie, eyes shining.

“Can….” he starts, sounding nervous—and _god_ , but doesn’t that completely undo Eddie? Richie Tozier, with his laughter and quips, sounding nervous, like Eddie has the power to unravel him right now—before taking a deep breath. “Can I kiss you?” he asks. Eddie gets the sense that it’s taking all of his courage not to run out of the room.

Eddie glances at Stan from the corner of his eye, and sees the smile on his face. It’s all the encouragement Eddie needs to follow his heart.

“I guess I _could_ try some of your famous experience,” Eddie says, a teasing tone to his voice, but he’s grinning wider than he can ever remember smiling before, and his voice is a little too breathless to pull off the teasing completely, and Richie just flashes him a thousand kilowatt smile, before leaning in and pressing his lips to Eddie’s.

Richie tastes different to Stan, and feels different too; he feels like laughter and slightly chapped lips, firmer than Stan’s, smiling against Eddie’s mouth.

They break apart, and Eddie feels Stan’s hand snaking to grab his. He takes it, like always.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Eddie admits.

Stan squeezes his hand, and Richie grins. “That’s okay,” Richie says. “Life’s more fun if you make it up as you go along.”

“Says the serial improviser,” Stan mutters, and Eddie chokes out a laugh. “Anyway, there’s time to figure it out, Eddie. We’ve got a lot of kids to take back to their homes, right?”

“Yeah, Georgie’s sticking around, but there’s no fucking way we’re keeping thirty kids on board,” Richie says.

Eddie thinks about what his mother would say if she could see him now, holding hands with two pirates, having _kissed_ two pirates, and with plans to keep sailing with them and their crew, dropping kidnapped children back at their homes, hoping their families haven’t left yet, and figuring things out for them if they have.

He can hear her in his mind, but, he realises, he doesn’t have to. Who cares what she thinks? Eddie thinks, for the first time maybe _ever_ , that he’s happy, really happy.

Happy and free.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed—please let me know what you think, if you've read this far!


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